Charlie leaned against the rusted vent, the October wind ruffling his dark brown hair, sharp against Maplewood's glowing skyline. The jungle mission's call—learn survival, hire a teacher, tough out a weekend—stirred a knot in his gut, but excitement drowned it out. The System's perks weren't just muscle boosts or cash piling in his pocket; they dangled something grander: titles, legendary ones he'd glimpsed months ago when tasks were mere runs and punches to claw free of "Sludge." Names like The Honored One burned in his mind, a tier above plain Honored One, carrying a mythic weight, as if whispered across galaxies. A "The" title felt like crushing stars, a secret encoded in the System's chime, hinting at power spanning worlds. Charlie craved one, even without the "The"—a title to etch his name beyond Maplewood's cracked streets.
A new itch flared. System, what's your name? He'd never asked, too caught in its shocks and rewards—first a jolt in this building's dust, then a flood of stats and cash. Every system had a name, he'd sensed, like a faint hum in its voice. One with "The" could rule galaxies, not some local trick. Is mine one? The hum stayed quiet, heavy, guarding something vast. Charlie's breath caught, the city's pulse syncing with his. "I'll earn a title," he muttered, locking in, "and I'll do the right thing. Jungle next summer." His path cut clearer than the skyline's edge.
Bucharest
Moonlight spilled over Bucharest's marble rooftops, casting shadows across Mihai Cantacuzino's pacing form in his family's sprawling estate. At 24, he turned heads—dark eyes sharp as cut glass, jawline sculpted, handsome like a silver-screen star. But wealth, not looks, defined his world. The Cantacuzinos ruled Romania's elite, their empire—Cantacuzino Global—a titan of green energy and private banking. Mihai's father, Victor, had forged it from post-communist ashes, wiring solar fields across Europe and locking oligarchs' fortunes in uncrackable vaults. By 20, Mihai's deals—snapping up wind farms, outsmarting Swiss bankers—doubled their reach, his 300 IQ slicing markets like a blade. Victor's boardroom buzzed with Mihai's ideas: green tech lighting cities, cash flowing like the Danube.
Yet Mihai was no spoiled prince. Victor's stern handshake and Elena's warm, piercing gaze shaped him—excel, honor the name, spend freely, but Mihai refused indulgence. His brother, Tomas, 18, trailed him like a shadow, sketching Mihai's contracts in awe, dreaming of boardrooms. Mihai saw deeper. Life's a coin toss, he thought, eyeing the estate's chandeliers. War tore kids apart, crooked justice propped up thieves, joy skipped most—his wealth was luck, not destiny. What if I'd been born in a dirt village, scraping for bread? He didn't flaunt gold; it meant nothing against death's shrug or the world's tilt. His genius—Bucharest's best negotiator, reading rivals like open books—felt small when he couldn't fix the imbalance.
Tonight, boredom gnawed. Cantacuzino Global's latest coup—a solar grid spanning Romania to Germany—was inked in Mihai's sharp cursive, another win leaving him staring at walls. "Leave, Costel," he told his butler, voice low, restless. The old man nodded, slipping out, the oak door clicking shut. Mihai turned, then froze. A new door stood in his wall—carved mahogany, swirling with knots, as if grown from the stone. Never there in twenty years of pacing these halls. His pulse ticked up, but fear didn't bite. A game? A glitch? A simulation? His mind, sharp as a trap, scoffed at danger—death was a bad deal, and he'd talked down worse.
If I die, I die. He pushed the door, hinges silent, stepping into a crimson glow—thick, warm, pulsing like blood over velvet. It enveloped him, his breath snagging as he reached out, fingers grazing the light. A flash, sharp as a blade, and he was back—sprawled on his mansion's rug, the door gone, moonlight steady through the drapes. His heart pounded, not fear but something alive. A chime rang in his skull, deep as a cathedral bell: System synchronization complete.
"What's this?" Mihai murmured, frowning. A voice answered, smooth, commanding, shadowed with weight: I am your System: The Crimson Sovereign. The name landed like a throne, vast, untamed, hinting at dominion beyond Bucharest's glow.
Mexico
Javier Morales stood on the jagged lip of Copper Canyon, Mexico, where the earth plunged a thousand feet into shadow. July's dusk bled purple over the cliffs, the wind howling like it carried the screams he'd buried. At 38, his face was a map of ruin—sunken eyes, graying stubble, lips cracked from days without water. His flannel shirt hung loose, threadbare, stained with sweat and dust; his boots were scuffed to scraps. Once a mechanic in Chihuahua, hands steady on wrenches, husband to Maria, father to Sofia and Mateo, he was now a husk—hollowed by loss, debt, and a world that didn't care.
Maria died three years ago, caught in a cartel drive-by, her sundress soaked red outside the market. Sofia, 10, and Mateo, 7, vanished a year later, snatched from their yard, likely sold or worse. Javier tore Chihuahua apart—begging cops, bribing dealers—but the trail went cold. Debts piled like graves: hospital bills for Maria's final hours, loans to chase leads, cartel threats when he couldn't pay. His shop foreclosed, house taken, friends muttering "bad luck" as they turned away. Homeless, he scavenged scraps, slept in alleys, each day a blade twisting deeper. Then he saw them—his kids, in trash bags, in pieces. The weight crushed his chest, heavier than the canyon's stone.
Tonight, he'd walked hours to this cliff, the highest in Copper Canyon, where the air stung and the drop promised an end. His legs trembled, not from fear but exhaustion, lungs raw from the climb. He'd come to die, to silence the pain gnawing his bones, the memories burning worse than hunger. No one cared—not God, not man, not the stars above. Javier's voice broke the wind, a rasp growing into a scream that tore his throat. "Why, God? What the fuck did I do to you?" His fist clenched, knuckles white, as he staggered closer to the edge, gravel crunching. "You took Maria, my kids—my goddamn life! Why me?"
No answer came, just the canyon's echo, mocking his rage. He screamed again, lungs burning, voice shattering like glass. "Why's this happening? WHY? I hate this life! Fuck humanity—my faith's gone, God! I believed, but this world's cursed!" His knees buckled, tears streaking dust, each sob a knife. "You cursed me! Left me nothing!" His voice gave out, a hoarse gasp, as he swayed, one foot dangling over the abyss. The drop yawned, black and final, whispering freedom. One step. His chest heaved, eyes blurred. No more.
A glint caught his eye. He froze, breath snagging. Carved into the cliff's face stood a door—black stone, tall as two men, etched with pulsing red symbols: pentagrams, twisted horns, eyes that watched. Javier blinked, heart slamming, expecting it to vanish. It didn't. The symbols glowed hotter, coiling like snakes, daring him closer. "God?" he whispered, voice a broken thread, half-hope, half-dread. The wind died, the air thick, as if the canyon held its breath. A trick? Hallucination? He didn't care. Nothing left to lose.
He stepped back from the edge, boots scraping, and shuffled toward the door. His hand shook, touching the stone—cold as a grave but humming. The symbols flared, red light bathing his gaunt face. A door to hell, God? Is this where I belong? He pushed, the door swinging silently, revealing a void—black, endless, threaded with crimson wisps like blood in ink. Javier stepped in, the world dissolving. A rush hit—not pain, but release, like chains snapping, his soul unmoored. Liberation surged, sharper than any knife, burning away grief, debt, despair. He gasped, falling, then landed hard, sprawled on the cliff's dirt, the door gone, stars cold above.
His pulse raced, not fear but fierce life. A chime cracked his skull, guttural, like a furnace roaring: System synchronization complete. Javier scrambled to his knees, dust stinging his eyes, heart pounding. "What is this, God?" he rasped, half-expecting silence. A voice answered, low, searing, like coals hissing: I am your System: The Infernal Harbinger. The name sank in, heavy, conjuring ash and claws, a power to rend worlds. A glowing window flickered before him, like the RPGs he'd played years ago—Diablo II, Maria laughing at his late-night grinds. Stats blinked: Strength, Vitality, Soul Count—0, for now. A line pulsed: Spend souls to summon demons. Purer souls yield greater power.
Javier's breath hitched, the cliff's edge sharp behind him. God? No—this is me. The stats, the System, echoed Diablo II's dark dance—Baal's growl, Mephisto's schemes. He wasn't cursed; he was chosen. His life—Maria's blood, Sofia's scream, Mateo's empty bed, debts that choked him—flashed clear. "I get it," he whispered, eyes glinting, not with tears but purpose. "You showed me the worst—humanity's rot, life's lies. War, greed, betrayal—they're the curse." He stood, legs firm, the canyon's wind no match for the fire in his chest. "This world's accursed, but I'm your blade. I'll purge it, burn every soul to ash, so it can be reborn."
His hands clenched, nails biting palms, as the System's hum grew, approving, hungry. The Infernal Harbinger wasn't salvation—it was judgment. Souls—pure or filthy—would fuel his demons, tear down the world's rot. He saw it: cities crumbling, skies red, humanity's end paving rebirth. "All my suffering," he murmured, a grim smile cracking his lips, "was to forge me. I'll save this world by ending it." Javier turned from the cliff, the drop forgotten, steps heavy but sure.
He didn't look back, the canyon's silence louder than his screams. The System pulsed, a drumbeat to war. Javier Morales, broken no more, walked into the night, the first soul already marked—his own, if it came to that. The world would burn, and he'd light the match.